


A Series of Inconsequential Events

by Kahvi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: FTM, M/M, Other, Transgender, Transsexual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2011-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:37:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A woman is killed. A man investigates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Series of Inconsequential Events

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt from [](http://queer-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[**queer_fest**](http://queer-fest.livejournal.com/): _Sherlock (BBC): Sherlock Holmes or Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, The murder of a transperson has Sherlock particularly agitated, as he himself is FTM. John refusing to let up asking about it is not helping_. Thanks to the amazing Roadstergal for the beta!

We find her slumped up against a canary-yellow Ford Fiesta in Soho at 5.38 Saturday morning, and I can already tell by John's face as he kneels down by her bloodstained feet (Manolo Blahnik sandals, bought second hand in a city that isn't London, possibly New York or Chicago) that this isn't going to be easy. Of course, I can tell by _her_ face too; by her ankles, by the way she wore her knock-off designer dress (River Island, three or four years old, but never worn before); by her nails, by her hair, which is long enough to have grown out from a haircut much like John's - his hair is overlong, now, and he hates it; I wonder why he doesn't do something about it - over a period of three or four years. By the color of it, blonde tinged with too much yellow. I am, therefore, not surprised by Lestrade's question (though relieved that he is the one posing it, and not John; I will have to deal with John sooner or later, and I'd much rather it be later):

"Doesn't look much like a man, does he?"

"No," I reply, "she doesn't."

* * *

I feel John's eyes on me as we turn to leave, twenty minutes later; hear the nervous clicking of his tongue, and I can imagine, from having seen it so many times, how it runs across his lips, how his eyes flicker. His unspoken questions are like klaxons, breaking my concentration (she did not drive; who drove the car, why was it moved and not the body - there would be marks; where were the marks) and I half-turn to snarl at him. "Spit it out, for god's sake; I can't hear myself thinking." John's eyes are wide, startled at my outburst; he is eager not to show it. "I'm not..." he begins, pointlessly, and I interrupt him.

"Please, don't bother. Just say it, it'll be quicker that way."

I can hear his breathing changing; I've been speeding up, in my agitation, and while he's not struggling to keep up, he's feeling it (shorter, less leg span). "You knew it was a man."

I close my eyes. It is a pleasantly cool evening (21 degrees Celsius), early summer, still. There is a slight breeze from South East, wafting past a kebab shop and reminding me that I'm hungry - no time for that now. I walk on, ignoring John's statement. Later. I'll deal with it later.

"Hey!" He speeds up, grabbing my shoulder. I shake him off. He grabs it again, clearly irritated. "You know what I mean; you could tell she hadn't always been a man. Woman."

I slow down, just a little, hearing John exhale in relief. I know he hates this; hates that I'm stronger and fitter than him in some ways, despite not looking it; hates that he's lost so much of the form he had in Afghanistan, but like the haircut, he does nothing about it. My lips twitch. He _is_ trying. "The term is 'male assigned at birth', and yes, I could. I'm surprised you couldn't." I'm not; but it's the sort of thing I normally say, and it might put him off. It doesn't.

"I know what a transsexual is, Sherlock; I'm a doctor!"

"You're a cardiologist."

"Whatever! I'm allowed to read up on things outside my specialty, you know. I don't just focus on a limited number of subjects and disregard everything else!" He's angry now, picking up the pace and walking alongside me. I could move ahead, but I don't.

"You're making it personal, which means you're agitated for some reason; perhaps we should just let it lie."

"You make things personal all the time!"

"No, I don't. My approach is entirely pragmatic, which tends to infuriate you. In fact, you often complain that I don't consider the personal aspect of an issue." I glance at him, and am rewarded with a narrow-eyed glare; I have distracted and diverted him, for now. But he is John Watson, and he is different; he will not relent, and I am coming to realize that this might be the beginning of the end of our association.

* * *

The room is quiet. The entire house is quiet. I can hear John sleeping upstairs (or rather, I don't hear the myriad little telltale noises that let me know he's not), and Mrs. Hudson is away. Everything around me is familiar and in its place; there are no new, erratic elements to distract or divert me, and so I am free to consider the facts of the case. Not the facts of the case itself; that tedious minutia I've already dealt with (based in London, frequent traveler to New York and Paris, extreme variation in income, not ties to family, unmarried; no girlfriend, no boyfriend, minute sequins under her fingernails - why); the autopsy tomorrow will tell me more, and Lestrade will have his simple solution; no, it is not that which occupies my mind.

I run a hand across my chest (shirt - 30% cotton, 70% silk, slightly damp with perspiration) - it is warm in here; I would go shirtless (the thought of John seeing me, abrupt, acute, visceral), or strip down to my underwear as I often did when living alone in smaller places in less appealing neighborhoods; impossible now, of course. I take a sip of tepid water and ask myself yet again if Lestrade _knows_ , and if so, how he possibly could. It cannot be coincidence, him consulting me on such a minor case; trivial, hardly worth my time. We have a history, and I cannot be sure that this is not his idea of some sort of test; a childish game of 'chicken' – is he waiting to see if I will have some sort of reaction? If so, he has misjudged me; I do not react. I am _pro_ active.

Noises now, up the stairs; John stirring in his sleep. He will come down now, half-dressed and apologetic, shuffling into the kitchen for a glass of water, and this is why I am not half naked. When I see his face in the doorway, I try to smile. I find I'm getting better at it.

* * *

I like the morgue. It is cool and calm and clinical; Molly runs a tight ship. Everything is organized, everything neatly folded, stacked and filed, if needlessly decorated, in some cases. I do like Molly. It is nice to be acknowledged. Furthermore, she can be very useful.

She is looking at me now, trying not to be obvious about it, which makes it more obvious, naturally. "Such a shame," she says, when I do not initiate conversation.

"What is?"

She shrugs, clearly not expecting that reply. She's known me for years, yet she draws no conclusions about my behavior; she is not like John (keen eyes, calmly observing); she is an open book, but one I do find interesting to read, from time to time. "That poor..." She struggles, lost between pronouns, probably. I sigh, moving to the other side of the table, forcing her to move.

"Woman," I supply.

Her eyelashes flutter at the edge of my vision, annoyingly. "The surgery was very recent. Very well done, though."

"Of course. She had the money and the resources for it. This is hardly NHS work. And clearly it was recent; you can tell by the dress."

"The..." Eyes shifting, head tilting slightly; she doesn't understand. They never do. Sometimes it tires me.

"Never mind." I look up and try the smile again, but something is missing, and I see it echoed in her eyes. "Thank you very much; your help is invaluable, as always."

Molly twitches a smile at me; quickly, a little helplessly. She dates women now and then (less intimidating) and doesn't want anyone to know. She clings to the idea of the person she thinks I am; ignoring my obvious flaws and exaggerating any positives she perceives in her mind. I am the ideal man, to her. It is an idea in which I sometimes take comfort.

* * *

I cannot avoid John forever, and by early evening he is home, face contorted in irritation; I have been ignoring his texts. "I rang Lestrade."

"Did you?"

"You wouldn't answer your phone; I was worried! You saw the hole they put through that poor woman's..."

"Why does everyone keep calling her that?"

"...head... what?" He stumbles, blinking, not prepared for the conversational turn.

(The smell of freshly brewed tea; leftover Chinese food slowly rotting on the table.) "'That poor woman'. She got herself killed; I daresay it was inevitable, the way she was living her life. Your sympathy is sadly misplaced."

Anger (brows furrowed; smile wide, oddly juxtaposed, displaced), now. I feel us sliding, irrevocably, towards the foregone conclusion. Oh, it would have been so nice to be wrong, this time. "Someone put a fucking bullet between her eyes, Sherlock!"

"Yes. It happens all the time."

"It happened to _her!_ "

"It happened to _her_ because she was a spy for the fashion industry."

He has not yet taken his jacket off; it baffles me that he would even wear it on a day like this, but he is very particular about his sartorial choices. He does so now, however, shaking his head in an effort to clear it. "Yeah, about that; Lestrade said you solved the case."

"What of it?"

John shakes his head again. He walks over (quick steps, still favoring one leg slightly) to his accustomed chair and sits down, facing me. I look into his eyes and know it is over. But this is a dance, and the music is still playing. "He said you just showed up, threw the evidence on his desk and walked out. Why didn't you text me?"

"You were at work."

"That's never stopped you before."

"I hardly needed your help for this."

His grin widens. I have learned to dread that look. "Yeah, well, again; that's never stopped you before. You sent me across town to send a bloody text, for Christ's sake.

"I..."

"Sherlock, cut the bullshit." His voice is crisp and loud and commanding, and I am too stunned to not obey. "There's something about this case you're not telling me, and I think I have a right to know."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I don't ask for much; I don't even ask for honesty, because I know I won't get it, but I do ask that you fucking _trust_ me. Now, whatever it is you don't want me to find out, I'd rather you just spit it out. I don't know what you're so afraid of, but it's not like you, and I..." He worries at his lower lip (slight discoloration, sun damage from Afghanistan) and does not finish. Instead, he _looks_ at me, and I am defeated. At any rate, he is right; he would find out sooner or later. He is John Watson, and he is different. He will not relent.

I rise. It is still uncomfortably warm, and my body foolishly relishes the cooling air hitting my chest as I unbutton my shirt. John stares. It takes him less time than expected to notice the scars, and when he does, when he does...

"Yeah, all right. That's all I was asking."

* * *

This does _not_ happen.

John does _not_ get slowly to his feet and reach out with a trembling hand (clearly I have read too much badly written online porn - they are good indicators of human behavior and psychology, though not in terms of plot and prose) to trace the faded lines beneath my pectoral muscles (abnormal definition due to improper care during healing process; still clearly visible after eleven years) carefully with his fingers. They are (though they are not - this is not happening) rock steady. I can see them; imagine them, very clearly. I imagine myself not flinching away, looking down, allowing him to explore. I can feel my skin tingling. My own hands are cold (poor circulation); his would be hot, they are always hot. Warm and steady as they trace my ribs (too prominent; food is boring), move down to my hips (not too prominent; lack of subcutaneous fat is sometimes useful), resting there to press his lips to my chest (wet, sliding). Then, his tongue.

But that does not happen.

This happens: John quirks a smile, rises, and goes off to the kitchen to make us tea. I drink it, gratefully, and we sit in amicable silence before I retire - soon enough; I haven't slept in days.

Normally, I fall asleep almost instantly at times like these, but now I linger, letting the shirt fall from my arms, down to the floor. There is a mirror in my bedroom, three quarter length, just enough to show my face and upper chest, the parts of me with which I am most comfortable. My own hands are cold (hypothesis confirmed) as I place them on my chest and imagine John's there.

His would be warm.


End file.
